


Blind Faith and Pantomime

by lazarus_girl



Series: Saudade Series [5]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> "History has fired its warning shot.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind Faith and Pantomime

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [15genres1prompt](http://15genres1prompt.livejournal.com). Genre: Science-Fiction. Prompt: Lost. Inspired by the Nerina Pallot song ['Nickindia'](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ea68xZXisDo), and the opening sequence of Powell and Pressburger’s [_A Matter of Life and Death_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KgP7ilJDHQ). Quote from _Contact_ by Carl Sagan.
> 
> AU. Set in the distant future.

***

_“For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love”_ – Carl Sagan, _Contact_.

***

They’re just lights on a screen. She’s just a voice transmitting over airwaves, chosen for her ability to be calm and logical. Air Traffic Control is no place for unwieldy, unquantifiable things like personal attachment and emotion. Everyone has a name, a number and a rank that shows exactly where they fit in this great machine.

She’s of value, that’s been drummed into her since day one of the Academy, but she’s also aware that she’s expendable too. They’re all expendable. That’s what she has to remember when one of those lights disappears from her screen. She’s not permitted to let it affect her performance in any way. Tears are for later, in the confines of her quarters, where no one can see or hear them. Officially, the only record of the occurrence exists in the incident reports she files at the end of her shift and the log of her workstation. It’s heartless and impersonal, but necessary.

The lost are too many in number to count. A memorial to them stands in the square – a tall, rotating glass obelisk inscribed with names. At its centre, is a holographic counter that updates automatically. The longer she stands and looks at it, the less meaning it has. The weight of their collective grief is a burden that’s becoming too heavy to carry, but one they have to endure for the greater good. To forge a better, brighter future.

History has fired its warning shot. Time is running out.

***

Earth, the place people much more senior than herself talk about with dewy-eyed nostalgia, is long gone. Once a thriving planet; years of conflict, waves of disease, famine and drought, combined with the ravages of Mother Nature took their toll. In its place was a barren, toxic wasteland, no longer fit for human habitation, and they were forced to explore other planets in the hope they could sustain life. Options were limited, and the first exploratory missions proved fruitless. The solution – an equally barren, desolate planet located in an uncharted region of space – came in the darkest of hours, when all hope was deemed lost.

The team assembled to board the first transporters, now known as ‘The Founders,’ were selected for their usefulness. They were brightest and the best in their respective fields – scientists, doctors, pilots, strategists, soldiers, farmers – the basis for this new world, this second chance. They carried the hope of a dying world on their shoulders. Sent up into space with along with works of historical, social, and cultural importance to save them from destruction, their journey was long, and not without incident, losing contact with Earth soon after leaving the orbit of the Moon. Upon their arrival, they named the new planet Tellus, in honour of those they had left behind.

Decades passed, and with it came more arrivals, the First and Second Waves establishing themselves as the new planet began to thrive. By the Third Wave, with a permanent democratic government in place, in place, and nearing self-sufficiency, life on Tellus was deemed a success, and became the model for neighbouring planets wanting to build a similarly strong infrastructure. Deals were brokered to open up trade routes in order to share resources and strengthen burgeoning alliances. Those alliances would bring their new world to its knees. The balance of power, though delicate, was maintained for several years and the Galactic Trade Alliance was formed, with cooperative nations signing a treaty to ensure continued peace and prosperity. The security they felt was false, and their kindness used against them. People once thought to be friends became enemies, building up an army of Resistance Fighters, gathered from across the galaxy, bound by their determination to take Tellus for their own.

The battle began long before she was born, and unless the situation improves, looks certain to continue long after she’s gone. Part of the Sixth Wave, and the daughter of Field Marshal, Robert J. Fitch, hers is the second generation to be born on the planet. She’s never known any world but this one. Everything she’s learned so far about life before now comes from the stories of others, the reference library in the square, and the limited information found within the data stream on her personal computer. The picture is incomplete.

***

For as long as she can remember, she’s always wanted to fly, up there, like them, those ‘Sky Gods.’ They’re the best of them, journeying fearlessly into distant space to protect what they’ve built from attack. It was expected that she would join their ranks, and she too would pin the shiny, electric-blue flight wings to her uniform, just as every Fitch before her had done. Until her death in combat, her mother, Jenna, was one of the highest-ranking female officers in service. Her twin sister, Katherine, graduated the Academy a year early, at the top of her class. Even her younger brother James, still a cadet, shows all the signs of becoming one of the best young officers their army has. She showed similar promise once. What nobody expected, was that the rigours of training would prove too much for her, and the very environment once created to keep her alive was slowly killing her instead. The perfect test scores throughout her time in the Academy, coupled with and an unblemished service record should make her proud, but she still believes that she’s failed. The flight wings are a distant dream now; one she can never fulfil.

Currently, just over a quarter of their population has the same incurable, still unnamed disease. Every morning, since the age of sixteen, she’s taken a cocktail of drugs, or Genetic Enhancers as they are called, engineered by Tellus’ team of scientists to keep her and all those like her, alive. Given her weakness, it was deemed too risky for her to continue on to flight training, and the only reason she maintains the position she has is due to the esteem in which her father is held. Compared to those like her, she lives a relatively normal life, and is one of few to survive beyond the age of eighteen. Every year since then has been a landmark, with her recent twenty-first birthday celebrated with the fanfare given to someone five times that age.

Upon learning of their sickness, the people of Tellus, were, understandably, fearful. From the age of twelve, she was exiled – her father terms it this way, as it’s more palatable than the official term of ‘quarantine’ – while the doctors performed tests and struggled to grasp what they were dealing with. The scale of the operation became so large that a task force was created, and the focus shifted away from prevention toward cure. From then on, she was a subject in the Project Eden trials. The majority of her adolescence was spent in a hospital room, and her every visitor came dressed in a decontamination suit, looking like the pictures she’d seen of early astronauts exploring space.

Outside of her family, and the teams of scientists and doctors working to create drugs to alleviate the effects of living on Tellus’ surface – headaches, tiredness, muscle weakness, nausea, breathlessness – those visitors were few and far between, except for one person, who visited her every day, without fail. Their meeting was a complete and total accident, just when she was becoming accustomed to life in a tiny, sterile, hospital room, devoid of colour, save for the garish red blanket that covered her bed. She had known Dr Campbell (Gina, she would later learn), by reputation only. An eminent scientist and well-regarded doctor, she was brought in from one of Tellus’ outposts, Luna I, to serve as the Clinical Lead for Project Eden, overseeing the teams of medical and scientific staff entrusted with her care. What she hadn’t known, however, was that Dr Campbell had a daughter, exactly her age, called Naomi. Until the girl walked into her hospital room beside her mother, she hadn’t made the connection between their names.

Naomi’s reputation preceded her from day one at the Academy. She glanced over at her from across the crowded auditorium during the introductory address. Of everyone there, she stood out. Though they all wore the same uniform – dark grey, accented with burgundy berets and gold piping – she wore it slightly differently. Her skirt was shorter than regulations stipulated, and her hair, a bright, bleached blonde – like the old pictures she’d seen of women in a place called ‘Hollywood’ – was longer, and one lock persistently snuck out from under her beret, defiant.

Just as she carried the expectations of others on her shoulders, so did Naomi. The daughter of the late Richard T. Campbell, an Air Commodore, the pressure on her to succeed was great, but she never once let it show or behaved as if she were better because of her lineage. Naomi was well-liked and never without friends, whereas she was always in the shadow of her sister, bolder and more socially adept than her, she never really felt that she fit in, so turned to her schoolwork instead. The only place she could truly shine. They moved in different circles, and her natural shyness meant that though Naomi intrigued her – fearless, articulate, opinionated – she was never quite brave enough to seek her out and strike up a friendship. They never made it beyond hellos in the corridor or polite small talk during their meal times.

All that changed when she came into her hospital room.

***

Unbeknown to her, her father had enlisted Naomi to act as a tutor, so she wouldn’t fall behind with her studies while she was hospitalised. In the first few days, they said little to each other beyond what was required, firmly in the roles of student and teacher. As days progressed into weeks, and weeks into months, she found herself loosening up and becoming more comfortable in her company. The time spent with textbooks open and pens in their hands became less and less. Naomi went from wearing a decontamination suit, sitting outside of oxygen tent that covered her bed, to walking in wearing a thin paper mask for show, and sitting right next to her on the bed when the tent had been removed, replaced by a thin tube attached to her nose.

For moments she could be, Naomi was there, holding her hand, sometimes sleeping next to her in a chair and rushing off to classes without ever going home. She was there for the best of days, when she felt well, and something closer to her teenage self, when they’d pick the biggest meal on the hospital menu and share it together while they watched the underground television channel broadcasted by the students at the university, long since tired of Tellus’ state-operated, dry, intellectual programming. She was there for the worst of days, when she felt terrible and was confined to bed, the furthest from her usual self than she’d ever imagined possible, because the new combinations of drugs gave her worse symptoms than her sickness ever had.

Over the years, the small group of friends she did have dwindled, even with the help of computers and video calls, soon distracted by the demands of their own lives. She buried herself in books about space flight and cosmology, desperate to be just Emily again, instead of a girl who was chronically ill and needed constant supervision. never able to do as she wanted. She resented them for leaving her, and she sometimes took her anger out on the wrong people – the doctors and nurses, her siblings, her parents. Sometimes, even Naomi. Instead of bringing her relief, like she hoped it might, it brought more pain. Day by day, she grew angrier and more frustrated, pushing the very people who wanted to help her.

Eventually, she reconciled herself with the situation. She had to let it all go. Deep down, she’d always known they couldn’t wait for her to be well. They couldn’t wait. They couldn’t stay, stuck in purgatory with her, until the day a new collection of pills arrived in a tiny paper cup. She never once complained and swallowed them down, fearful for the outcome, but secretly hopeful of success at the same time.

It took four years for that day to come, and even then, it felt bittersweet.

In gaining some semblance of good health, she didn’t want that to mean she’d lose Naomi. Promises were made, and Naomi swore to her that things would remain the same, even as they entered the final stages of their training and would be assigned their posts. She was headed for Logistics or Strategy – something ‘safe’ her father said – offered personally by Officer Lawes, Head of Aeronautical Communications. Naomi, meanwhile, was had applied to the Flying Corps, just her father before her. She wanted to believe her – Naomi had never once lied – but too many promises had been made and broken before. The first, the one that she’ll always remember, was when her father, hands folded in his lap as he sat across from her in the chair, telling her she wouldn’t be in hospital long at all. The last, when her father sat in that same chair, telling her that she’d be able to do and be whatever she wanted. The sickness wouldn’t stop her. They were kind lies. The whitest of lies, to buoy her forward, she knows that know.

She was sceptical, but Naomi proved her wrong. Again.

Five years have passed since she left the hospital, and Naomi’s been there for every day of them. Somehow, she’s been involved in every significant milestone in her life.

The first of these happened on her sixteenth birthday. It was celebrated quietly with her family as had been the tradition since her hospitalisation. That quiet ended when  
Naomi snuck in later on, with presents and tiny cake, complete with candle, and helped her to blow it out, singing to her soft and off-key. Teary, because of the long separation from her sister and the real world, Naomi had kissed her, briefly, lightly, and she was so surprised that it took her a few moments to kiss back. It felt natural, and right, and the second their lips touched, something, somewhere clicked into place. It felt like a photograph she’d seen of a supernova exploding. In that instant, she suddenly understood why her sister chased boys and talked about being in love as if it were the greatest thing that could ever happen to her.

There were many kisses after that. Sometimes, they were secret, quiet little kisses, under the cover of her blankets in the dead of night as Naomi curled against her to keep her warm. Sometimes they were bold, hungry kisses that left her breathless in the of ways.

The second happened roughly two years later, on the night of their Graduation Ball, both a celebration of their time at the Academy and a rare moment for them to enjoy themselves. Sadly, she wasn’t well enough to attend it, or any of the parades beforehand. In her quarters alone, wearing her Academy t-shirt and shorts out of sheer habit, her only glimpse came when she watched the planes during their fly-past from the window, wondering which one Naomi was flying. Sometime after midnight, Naomi had arrived, still in her dress with a bottle of champagne in hand. They toasted each other and talked, sipping away at the bottle, passing it between them.

Later, they danced out of time as the bad jazz music from the Banqueting Hall drifted across the square. She knew something would happen when Naomi pulled her closer. It was as if every moment they’d ever shared had been building toward it. This time, she didn’t back away Naomi’s kisses moved down her down her neck as she had so many times before. She didn’t freeze when Naomi began to undress her, slow and careful. She didn’t even ask her to stop when they fell back on to the bed, limbs entangled, with their hands and mouths exploring, revelling in the sensation.

It was everything she imagined and nothing like she imagined.

As the light of a new day crept in, pushing her toward wakefulness, she found herself still wrapped in Naomi’s arms. Truly content for the first time in her life, she knew things had changed between them – that they’d entered a new, different, and particular phase – but had no real idea what that might be.

Now, a few years later, with the benefit of hindsight, she grasps the truth of it. Somewhere along the line, they stopped being friends, and became something else. She’s never been sure what to call it, and it’s not something they’ve really talked about at great length. Nothing she ever thinks of conveys the right depth of feeling. Some people might call it love. Though she’s never used that word, she’s felt it all the same, right down to her bones.

***

The adjustment from leaving the Academy and entering Service wasn’t as difficult as she anticipated. Instead of floundering, she thrived. It was just a part of natural progression, and since she’d spent so much time away from the others, her attachment to those days wasn’t as strong as that of her peers. In a stroke of luck, she and Naomi ended up living in adjoining quarters. Consequently, they rarely slept apart, and always ended up in the same bed no matter how hard they resisted. So much of her life has been ordered and structured, from her medication regime, to the duties she follows through religiously everyday, it’s nice to have something private, secret, and entirely her own.

Her first year spent number crunching in Logistics was fun – she’s always enjoyed the safety of mathematics, that there was always a right answer – but she craved more, and desperately wanted to be more involved. When Naomi would return from her early flights with tales of the sights she’d seen, and all the loop and rolling tricks she’d learned from her instructors, it made her hunger for it even more. Her clandestine trips to the flight simulators weren’t enough. Jealousy threatened to tip the balance, and she was in danger of envying Naomi’s success rather than being proud of it. Naomi soon caught on, taking her up as a passenger on one of their rare weekends off. Once in flight, Naomi switched over the controls to her, and for one afternoon, she got to fly, seeing everything she’d only ever read about, performing all the tricks she’d heard about for real, with the roar of an engine underneath her instead of the whirring of a computerised machine.

She’ll never forget it.

That night, Naomi set her sights on becoming a Flight Lieutenant, and she decided to apply for a transfer to Air Traffic Control. Watching the skies beat watching the clock, even if she couldn’t fly. In a way, they’d always be together, even when they weren’t.

It’s a risk to carry on as they do, but it’s one she’s prepared to take. Relationships between officers are against protocol, but she likes that danger, and the surge of adrenaline brought on by bending the rules. They’re always careful, and try not to appear as anything more than friends when in public. Seeing how far they can push that boundary and not be detected brings it’s own thrill of course. They’ve developed their own sort of code for these occasions: a certain quirk in their smiles; holding each other’s gaze a few beats too long; a brush of a hand under the cover of the table at mealtimes. It’s enough until night falls. It has to be.

***

On her first day in the Air Traffic Control room, she was overwhelmed by the sheer number of controls and procedures she had to learn – from operating the computer, to the codes for directions and manoeuvres created to conceal their strategies from the enemy. Her superior assigned her a group of ten pilots, all preparing for the latest offensive against the Resistance Forces. Each had their own callsign, churned out arbitrarily by the computer system, that she had to commit to memory; prohibited to call them by the forename listed in their personnel records. Naomi was amongst them, and she came to simultaneously want and dread the moment when the word ‘Nightingale’ would come into her headset, and she’d hear Naomi’s voice. In the space of three months, Naomi was the only pilot she had left from her original assignment. The others were either invalided out, missing, or killed in action. It was a sobering introduction to the human cost of the conflict she’d lived under the shadow of for so long.

Three years later, she’s much more adept at her job, handling several different communications streams at once. Her left ear is patched in to the frequency of her assigned pilots – fifty or more on mission days and the peak of combat, half that for normal Galactic Trade Alliance flights. Her right follows the communication line from her superiors. It’s a difficult balancing act, and her ears are always pricked, waiting to hear her callsigns. They all mean something to her to a degree. She always feels an immense personal connection, especially when the communication channels shut down two-way broadcast, and they engage in real conversation, talking about things other than missions, objectives and locations on maps. She likes to think she keeps them company, when they’re stuck out there, waiting for the call to scramble. The calm before the storm. She tries not to get attached or show preference, but some of them have become more than just colleagues; she counts them amongst her friends.

She still fears hearing the word ‘Nightingale.’ The extra knowledge brought by the passing years has made it more difficult to cope with. It was easier when she had a less concrete grasp on what was happening, and what it truly meant. Whenever the call comes for the pilots and the soldiers to leave, it doesn’t matter to her how many hours of flying Naomi has or how experienced she’s become, every mission feels like the first. She spends hours, days, and sometimes weeks without her. The separation is painful, an all too eerie reminder of her teenage years. Without fail, her stomach goes leaden, ties in knots, and she’s constantly on edge, until the moment the fleet lands and Naomi returns to her safely.

Despite her reputation as one of the most skilled pilots for her age, Naomi hasn’t always made it home unscathed. After hearing every second of it unfold in the ATC room, she’s spent hours pacing the floor at the hospital, waiting for her to return from surgeries of various kinds: the removal of glass from her arms; burns from ejecting after being hit; and the setting of broken bones. For every step of Naomi’s recovery, she’s been there at her side to comfort and support her. Just as did when they were younger. Everything’s come full circle.

***

She’s not religious – there are places to worship here, a nod to the old world, but she’s never been inside on the days when she isn’t required to attend for wedding ceremonies – but they do have their own rituals on mission days that carry just as much weight as the bonds of faith. Superstitious might be a better word, but even then, that makes what they share seem flighty and inconsequential.  
The hours before Naomi leaves are defined by their quietness. It’s blissful. They rarely talk, most of what Naomi has to do is classified, and her level of clearance isn’t high enough to know everything, and often, she doesn’t _want_ to know either. If she knew the details of what Naomi had to do, she’d probably never let go of her. She tries not to think of what they share as the last of anything – that’s tempting fate, and it’s already proven cruel without her input. First, they shower together, storing up kisses and lingering touches as they stand under the warm spray, to make up for the time they have to be apart. No matter how long they spend, going through seemingly endless rounds of lathering soap and rinsing clean again, it’s never quite enough.

Next, they cook breakfast together, Naomi’s favourite – toast, scrambled eggs and fruit. It’s a farewell salute to real food before all Naomi has is rations. Then, she helps Naomi to pack her kit and put on her uniform. It’s her favourite part, even though it’s the final stage before Naomi has to leave for her briefing. Naomi doesn’t need the help, of course, but there’s something about the order of it all, laid out on their bed. Undressing is meant to be erotic, but dressing can be just as charged. The moment Naomi relinquishes control, letting herself be vulnerable in an entirely different way, it always strikes her hard, because she knows how hard it is for Naomi to trust people.

When Naomi stands there, packed and ready to go, pristine in her uniform, not even a hair out of place, there’s always a few long seconds where they don’t speak at all. There’s no tears, not anymore. She’s disconsolate, of course, but that feeling is quickly replaced by pride, sheer unadulterated pride. They never say goodbye, it’s too heavy a word. Naomi always kisses her instead. Just once, with the greatest of care.

Naomi never looks back.

***

When Naomi left this morning, an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Every hour that’s passed since she watched the fleet leave, that has gotten heavier and heavier, travelling through her body to the point that she feels like she’s suffocating. The mission is a pivotal one, a strategy that’s been talked of as the breakthrough in the campaign. Six months of training has been dedicated to this day, and the attack will be over in a matter of minutes, all being well.

They’re flying out to the farthest edge of their galaxy, and will slingshot back to invade one of the last key Resistance strongholds. Until now, the fuel cells manufactured on Tellus haven’t been able to hold the capacity needed for the flight, but technological breakthroughs and rigorous tests mean they’ve finally found a workable solution.

From her vantage point in the ATC tower, she’ll be the one to direct the fleet in to land. It’s only her third time manning the station. She relishes the challenge it offers: her day job, but on overdrive. There’s hundreds of craft to keep watch over – GTA planes, fighters, transporters and everything in between. To an outsider, the screen looks overwhelming, and once, she would’ve felt that way too; confused by the tiny lights, blinking and demanding her attention, even before combinations of co-ordinates and callsigns are taken into account. Her coping mechanism is simple. Instead of seeing the screen as a grid, she sees them as the constellations, so she can never forget their positions. The shapes are drawn from her memories of hours spent on the floor of the observatory back the Academy. She assigns her pilots new names – Andromeda, Delphinus, Lyra, Phoenix, and Vela – the screen transforms and everything snaps into place.

All she has to do is wait.

***

The clock strikes six when the call comes.

***

_ATC Tower B. Aeronautical Communications Log. 18:00 – 18:15_

Station Officer: Fitch. Emily, Jane. #94541037.  
Commanding Officer: Blood. David, Christopher. #53941702.

Communications between Officer Fitch ( **ANCHOR** ) and Flight Lieutenant Campbell ( **NIGHTINGALE** ).

_18:00:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** ANCHOR this is NIGHTINGALE, do you read?

_18:00:_ **ANCHOR:** NIGHTINGALE this is ANCHOR, go head.

_18:02:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** Urgent air support required in Sector 12. Mission compromised.

_18:02:_ **ANCHOR:** Roger. Scrambling air support to your location.

_[Officer Fitch requests air support from FALCON 1]._

_[Flight Lieutenant Campbell fires on unidentified craft 3B]._

_18:04:_ **ANCHOR:** NIGHTINGALE, do you read? Repeat. NIGHTINGALE do you read?

_18:06:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** Enemy craft has fired. Left wing is damaged. Fuel cell is under fifteen percent. ANCHOR, what’s the nearest landing pad?

_18:06:_ **ANCHOR:** Your nearest is Luna 1. You’re two minutes out.

_18:07:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** Changing trajectory. I can do it. I can land. I can get to back to base.

_18:07:_ **ANCHOR:** NIGHTINGALE, be advised … the fuel cell won’t last.

_18:08:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** Acknowledged … I have to see you again.

_18:09:_ **ANCHOR:** Don’t. Don’t do it Naomi.

_18:11:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** We always take risks, don’t we?

_18:11:_ **ANCHOR:** Please, it’s not safe. Just try and land where you are. I’ll get the medic.

_18:12:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** I can see the lights on the tower. I can see them.

_18:12:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** Damn. Emily, I won’t make this. It’s too late.

_18:13:_ **ANCHOR:** Naomi …

_18:13:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** I need to say something. I just want you to listen … I never say it, but … Jesus …

_18:14:_ **ANCHOR:** Naomi … NIGHTINGALE, do you read?

_18:14:_ **NIGHTINGALE:** I’ve always loved you. I’m so glad we found each other ... You’re so brave ... I love you … I love you … Goodbye.

_18:15:_ **ANCHOR:** I love you too.

_[Communication with NIGHTINGALE is lost]._

***

Written down like that, in black and white; cold, hard, inescapable fact doesn’t make it seem any more real, even when that transcript was in front of her while the Commission questioned her and the recording echoed around the wood-panelled courtroom during the hearing. She withstood their questioning and their scrutiny, withdrawing into herself as everyone in the room heard those final, private seconds between them.

There was no court martial. No reprimand. She wanted punishment. She wanted something to be angry at and rally against instead of feeling nothing but this crippling numbness. Naomi was gone. She’d lost her. Nothing else matters. Not her admirable performance, the commendation, the new stripe on her uniform or the posthumous valour medals they gave to Naomi and her unit. It all rang hollow. All that matters is Naomi’s gone. People keep telling her they’re sorry for her loss. Losing something implies she can get it back. She’ll never get Naomi back.

Those fifteen logged minutes felt like hours. Naomi and her unit never stood a chance. In the end, all the technology and the skill were worth nothing. What that log doesn’t say, is how horrifying it was to hear Naomi panic as everything around her failed.

She’ll never forget the beeping of the air pressure alarm going off in the background, or the low drone as the plane dropped lower and lower.

With their fuel cells low on power, they were already vulnerable. The Resistance were ready, alerted to the attack by a mole within the squadron. Significantly overpowered. Naomi and her unit – Wing Commander Brittain (Vulture); Group Captain Cook (Raven); and the youngest of them, Flight Officer McLair (Eagle) – were forced to abort the mission, giving chase when Tellus’ air space came under attack, determined to take down the enemy targets. She scrambled reinforcements as fast as she was able to, but it was already too late. Against orders from Commander Brittain, Naomi flew further into enemy territory, firing on an enemy craft containing munitions, cutting off their supplies. The blast threw her off course, and her engines began to lose thrust, and Naomi’s plane went into freefall.

She’d directed pilots to land by eye before, bringing up the maps on her other screen, it looked entirely possible, especially with Naomi’s skill. Near to Luna 1, she could just about make the landing, but Naomi was determined to make it back to the tower, even with her damaged landing gear. She watched from the tower as the plane banked to the left, near enough on course, until she lost control and it crash landed in the near the base.

The next few moments unfolded in slow motion. She rose from her seat, eyes fixed on the scene outside the window. It took all her will to stay at her post, and not rip her head set off and run out from the tower when she saw the flames licking at the wreckage. She can still feel the heat, and the blue-green glow from the fuel cell when it exploded. That, and the shockwave that jolted the tower are the only things that remind her it actually happened, and wasn’t something conjured up in her darkest nightmares.

Out of sheer habit, she glanced at the screen. It flickered, and momentarily went black. When it came back on again, the tiny dot representing Naomi’s plane was gone.

Naomi’s final words still ring in her head. They’ll never leave her: I love you … Goodbye.

***

After the funeral, she went to the ATC room to tidy her workstation, in the hope of distracting herself with something mundane to get the images of the day out of her head. Next to her computer terminal, she found a box, with a neat handwritten note attached. Unfolding it, she sank slowly down into the nearest seat, tears springing up as she took in the first few words:

_Emily,_

_Naomi would want you to have these, and I can’t think of a better home for them. I’m so glad she found someone she could share her life with. I only wish you’d had longer together._

_Thank you for loving her as much as you did. She became a better person because of it._

_Gina._

Wiping away her tears, she struggles to open the box, her hands shaking, half knowing what’s inside. There, wrapped in white silk emblazoned with the Tellus crest, as perfect as the day she was awarded them, are Naomi’s flight wings. She swallows hard, feeling fresh tears prick her eyes. They roll, unhindered, down her cheeks as she holds the wings up to the last few rays of late afternoon sun. The light catches them just so, revealing their hidden colours: beautiful, bright, and brilliant, just like the girl who once wore them.


End file.
